The Case of the Swan in the Fog
Book Three in the ‘Before Watson’ Series
By
A. S. Croyle
Published in the UK by
MX Publishing
335 Princess Park Manor
Royal Drive, London, N11 3GX
www.mxpublishing.co.uk
Digital edition converted and distributed by
Andrews UK Limited
www.andrewsuk.com
© Copyright 2017 A.S.Croyle
The right of A.S.Croyle to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1998.
All rights reserved. No reproduction, copy or transmission of this publication may be made without express prior written permission. No paragraph of this publication may be reproduced, copied or transmitted except with express prior written permission or in accordance with the provisions of the Copyright Act 1956 (as amended). Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damage.
All characters appearing in this work are fictitious or used fictitiously. Except for certain historical personages, any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The opinions expressed herein are those of the authors and not of MX Publishing.
Cover design by Brian Belanger
Big Barges full of yellow hay
Are moored against the shadowy wharf,
And, like a yellow silken scarf,
The thick fog hangs along the quay
-Oscar Wilde, Symphony in Yellow
Prologue
June 8, 1944
The fog of war is lifting and hope, a feather perched in my soul, rises from its darkened chamber.
I thought of Sherlock Holmes, who would have rejoiced at the news, and it brought tears to my eyes. I wish he were here with me, listening to the good tidings on the BBC.
We have just learned that in early June, the United States and Great Britain assembled the largest number of soldiers and the greatest amount of equipment ever to launch and sustain an amphibious attack. Hour by hour, we hear accounts of the acts of heroism on the beaches of Normandy where the Allied forces invaded occupied Western Europe.
I had to smile when my dear brother, Dr. Michael Stamford - the man who introduced Sherlock Holmes to Dr. John Watson - rushed into my room, nearly losing his footing. Leaning on his cane, his voice quivering, he said, “Poppy, look at this!” as he handed me the financial edition with its front-page headline: Tone Commendably Calm on War News. Was a more British headline ever written?
I scanned the article quickly. The article began by stating, “The Stock Exchange took the news of the long-expected invasion of the Continent with commendable calmness.” I could not help but be amused by the use of such phrases as “fairly busy,” “inclined to dry up” and “understandably quiet” in front page reporting. The stories in other papers were a bit more dramatic. One article stated that “June 7th dawns with the allies securely in control of all five beach heads.” Another report in The Evening Standard said that Churchill “announced the successful massed air landings behind enemy lines.” That story went on to describe the landing of four thousand ships and eleven thousand aircraft - “flying fortresses” bombing the beach.
Soon my grandson will be coming home. We received word that he was wounded, and we do not know the extent of his injuries, but I am hopeful, that, like Sherlock Holmes’ faithful companion John Watson, the damage, both physical and emotional, will not be too great for him to resume the practice of medicine.
As I look out my bedroom window, however, I see another fog rolling in... and it is a reminder of days gone by, of the fogs that covered my beloved London in the past, smothering it and granting camouflage for criminals. Even my dear friend Oscar Wilde wrote about the awful, moving beast that shut out the sun in our fair city.
The fog never stopped Sherlock Holmes. He could unearth any clue and bring light to darkness. He entered the world to purge evil from London, to pounce on the beasts of the city’s underbelly with his fresh ideas, his unorthodox methods, and a gentle, wordless expectation that his opinions would be taken as gospel. He moved through the world alone, trying to snuff out the grim and imaginative cruelties that man visits upon man. But he did let me in for just a little while. For a short time, we entered an unwritten sacrosanct contract, with Sherlock as Don Quixote and me as his Sancho. Then again, Sherlock tilted no windmills. He was born to slay dragons.
Sherlock Holmes kept secrets, even from Dr. Watson, his friend and biographer. Secrets about his friendship with my brother Michael who introduced Watson to Sherlock, secrets about himself, and definitely secrets about me and my involvement in many of his early cases. I am quite certain Dr. Watson never knew about the time Sherlock and I spent together in the Broads or that we designed a little sailing vessel, a replica of which Sherlock left me under the terms of his Last Will and Testament. I am sure Dr. Watson never knew about our affection for one another or about my long struggle to shed the heavy weight of my love for him. These were secrets Sherlock took to his grave.
I finally summoned the courage to part ways with Sherlock, to go on without him in my life, only because I had no choice. Ultimately, the relationship was unsustainable. I walked away from him over sixty years ago because I discovered it was easier to bury my feelings than to carry them around like a stone on my back. I struggled for years to carve out a new life far away from him, and the burden diminished; its consistency gradually went from a mantle of marble to a warm blanket to a gauzy veil.
But I kept up with his adventures. I read Dr. Watson’s accounts of how Sherlock continued to try to transform London into a magic city of permanent peace.
But, oh, had he succeeded, how very bored he would have been.
For the first time since I learned of the bombing of
